The NVA soldiers moved back and forth in the tufted growth mud distance, like sidewinding snakes across a desert of nearly flat sand.
The numbers, I instantly knew, although it was impossible to see individuals at distance even through the mildly magnified gun sight, were too large to be handled or overcome by firing the six gun barrels of the Ontos. I turned my head and started to move from my seat atop the ammo boxes Rio had substituted in place of the metal swivel chair. I stopped midway because Fusner was there already, holding out the radio handset.
“Ripcord, gun control officer, sir,” he said, his tone indicating that he and Zippo had probably been able to come to the same conclusion I had without the aid of any visually enhancing equipment.